Of Inestimable Value
by AutumnAtMidnite
Summary: When Holmes loses his temper in the midst of a case, the long-suffering doctor is left to wonder if he's managed to lose the detective's regard, and will go any length to win it back.


**A/N: **This was written for the Watson's Woes Help_Japan meme last year, and I'm only now getting around to posting it here. As always, my thanks are due to the lovely Ingridmatthews for the prompt, which asked for an insecure!Watson and comforting!Holmes. It was just what I needed to get my writing gears turning again.

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><p><em>"A companion loves some agreeable qualities which a man may possess, but a friend loves the man himself."<br>- James Boswell_

How I came to find myself seated in the far corner of what was incontestably the most depraved public house this great cesspool of a city has ever conceived was too dismal a thought to bear. All the same, my head sunk in my hands, elbows balanced on a table coated with the grime of a fortnight's worth stale smoke and ash, I could not help _but_think I'd become something analogous to the faithful dog who is cast to the wayside when its master grows weary of his rather ordinary looking, insipid, half-crippled mongrel.

So I sought refuge here, at _The Ten Bells_of dubious reputation. It was only the most brazen amongst these hardened East End roughs who risked venturing into this ghastly place, and I was fully aware how ambiguous were my own chances at leaving it unscathed. I do not mean to insinuate I am some harbinger of any cowardly streak – one does not, after all, survive the perils of war or endure Sherlock Holmes as a constant companion without an ample share of pluck. Yet, I should be entirely bereft of sense had I put out of my mind the vulnerable situation I had walked into. Although, that was, in essence, the very reason I was languishing here to begin with – my utter lack of sense...

The case seemed ordinary enough, with Holmes bemoaning its pettiness throughout our cab drive to Spitalfields. A commonplace little murder rooted in jealousy and revenge, a husband taking out his wrath on the multiple lovers his wife had taken on whilst he was away at sea, his bloody rampage leaving the Yard chasing their proverbial tails for a single lead. I knew in my heart we should never have otherwise found ourselves about at this ungodly hour of the morning, in such a bitter clime, no less, had it not been Stanley Hopkins who'd brought the case to him.

If I am to be forthright, from the moment he barged his way into our comfortable scene of domesticity, of us relishing in companionable silence the warmth of our hearth, I was uneasy abut the ease with which that little upstart could insinuate himself into our home. It was not like Holmes to welcome any other into his private life; even Lestrade, who repeatedly proved his merit as a friend, was kept at arm's length. My inherently optimistic nature bade me attribute these uncertainties to an excitable imagination, but what else was I to suppose when so great an effort was being put into turning a deaf ear to my interjections whilst hanging off Hopkins' every blasted word? No, it was truth, and one I had held in the deepest corners of my mind for some months now. These late night callings were but an excuse for the two men to see each other, and I was, by degrees, being replaced by a younger, dashing, and infinitely better man.

Thus, for all it pained me to do so, I was set to prove or disprove my unhappy theory that very night. Downing another draught of cheap ale, I could as yet hear Holmes' bitter comments, felt them sting worse than if he had struck me across the face. I suppose it _was_nothing less than I deserved, though that went no way in lessening the ache.

I could still, in my mind's eye, vividly see that frightful glare darkening Holmes' angular face when I intentionally contradicted the official investigator.

"Watson," he growled, his words more replete with frost than the softly falling snow, "must you hinder an already abstruse investigation with your nonsensical prattlings? Really, man, it's as though you are making an effort to be more obtuse than usual. Hopkins' observations were perfectly sound – you might even learn a thing or two from the good inspector had you the wherewithal to _pay attention_."

From then on, the situation only deteriorated. Both men subjected me to the cold shoulder, that intolerable sycophant going so far as finishing off every sentence with a well placed "yes Mr. Holmes" or "indeed Mr. Holmes, you astound all us mere mortals." My friend, it goes without mentioning, was only too beguiled by this wanton praise, his grey eyes so bright they seemed to alight the very murk of the mews in which we searched for this homicidal sailor fellow. It did not escape my attention that until now, it was a look of genuine pleasure only I had ever inspired.

But the final blow came when Holmes, frustrated that his deductions as to the man's whereabouts led us to a tavern which had been burnt out by fire at least several weeks prior, goaded me into a match of verbal fisticuffs. My temper quick rising, a formidable row looming about us thick and tangible as fog, I propelled my hat against the nearest wall in vexation, and stalked off into the night. It was clear my presence was neither required nor wanted, so I'd no qualms about abandoning the man whom I once thought of as my dearest friend in the midst of an investigation.

Over two hours later, I rose to leave this awful place. My chest seized with a tightness such as I had not known in many a long year, I set down a twopence for my now empty glass, and, making every effort not to meet the gazes of those denizens of this hovel who practically licked their lips with the anticipation of pilfering my pocketbook - by any means necessary - I began to make my way out. As young Hopkins had brought one of his own, I'd foolishly left behind my revolver. It was, however, no grievous thing should they spill my blood for the few shillings and a five pound note on my person, for with Holmes so livid with me, what great loss was it were I to shrug off this mortal coil?

However, my troubles summarily dwindled into obscurity when, at the same instant my hand tightened around the door handle, it was besieged with the force of a bull's kick. In turn, I was thrown to the ground by the unexpected power in that burst of effort which left the door hanging precariously by its lower hinge. I was still on my back when I caught sight of the brute who took it upon himself to make so unorthodox an entrance. For all appearances, he cut the figure of a formidable man whose path one crosses over into unlit alleyways to avoid. An ugly scar originating from the bottom lip and descending to the underside of his jaw, along with the tattoo depicting an anchor jutting out from underneath his greasy collar, unmistakably identified this villainous personage as one Richard Saunders. The very man whose trail Holmes was, at this moment, scenting out.

Save for my stick, I was unarmed, and any action on my part was but a fool's venture. Although my inherently tenacious nature in conjunction with my medical training brooked no arguments about throwing myself into the fray. Saunders, whose advent had the uncanny talent for causing the patrons of this squalid den to shrink into their pints and feign blindness, walked up to the table where a particularly cowardly specimen trembled in his boots, and hauled him bodily out what remained of the door. It was over before it truly began, and I was only partway to my feet when the murderous fiend departed.

I would have followed without a care as to my own exposure to danger regardless of my quarrel with Holmes. Yet I wondered, as I pursued the criminal and his intended victim down an adjoining passageway lined with dilapidated row houses, if I could somehow waylay this Saunders long enough to summon a constable, and, in so doing, win back the affections of my friend on a task well done. If I could prevail where Holmes himself were unsuccessful, might I not then prove my worth?

My spirits lifted by this new-found opportunity to redeem myself, I crept quietly as I could through the narrow, unlit passage,the wind sweeping up detritus doing little to improve my line of vision. In the end though, it was, I believe, more my own clumsiness in my method of following the blackguard than the inferior view that alerted him to my presence. I was not mindful of where my shadow was being cast, and under the dim glow of the moon, it danced along the opposite wall. Saunders, who had the poor chap he dragged off dangling by his throat, his feet several inches off the ground, blade shoved into his cheek, merely flicked his eyes in my direction before mercilessly slicing into flesh. Then he let go of his wailing quarry and turned in my direction.

I was vaguely aware of the hapless victim tearing past me, a copious volume of blood leaking through the fingers he'd pressed to the wound. I stood my ground, knowing full well that if I _did_run, a knife hurled into my back or the chances of him overtaking me were too high to chance. So I stayed my ground, where the first move might be mine to make, such as it is. A brute wielding a cudgel is destined to win the game, no matter who has the advantage of a head start.

I shall here spare the reader of those cumbersome bits of minutiae which ensued. Suffice it to say while my old rugby tackle is but a sad intimation of its former glory, its usefulness for knocking the breath out of a fellow's lungs remains unmatched. The bloody weapon was dropped with a howl of pain as my walking stick crashed down upon his hand, and with its loss went Saunder's nerve. He took off quicker than all blazes, and with my leg throbbing as it was from the night's exertions, I lost him a quarter of the way down Thrawl Street.

Utterly dejected and more than a little numb from the intensifying snowstorm, and sans the stick I'd lost in the struggle, I arrived back at the tavern with the intent of bringing to the attention of a constable the abandoned murder weapon. Normally, I would go directly to Holmes with such evidence, but in imagining how my friend should look at me when he learnt of my unpardonable blunder... I would sooner face Death in the eye than have to see Sherlock Holmes regard me with abhorrence.

When I returned to the tavern some half hour later, however, all thoughts of my own woeful inadequacies fled from my mind at the scene that greeted me.

A crowd had gathered in that passageway betwixt _The Ten Bells_and its neighbouring doss house wherein our struggles had transpired. Even in so short a time, the snow and over-curious onlookers did an admirable job at obscuring our footprints, yet at the mouth of the alley and in desultory patches up the street were puddles of blood which suggested the poor fellow's injuries were less superficial than I had at first supposed. A fine doctor I was, for wasting my efforts on Saunders and leaving a (relatively) innocent man to go off when he was in grave need of medical care.

But it was not that which raised the hairs on the back of my neck and sent a chill to my heart – it was Holmes' voice, high and rambling and rife with panic. I could not make out what he was saying, so agitated was he, and was unable to imagine what had shaken his iron constitution.

As I pushed through the horde of men blocking the entrance to the alley, I finally caught sight of Holmes, who was pacing a short trail from one wall of the alley to the next, clutching my walking stick and using it to accentuate his tumultuous vociferations aimed at one Stanley Hopkins and a pair of dumbfounded bobbies.

"But Mr. Holmes," plead the former in his whinge of a voice, "what you ask is an impossible thing. We can't simply employ all of Scotland Yard to search for one man!"

In a sudden fit of temper, Holmes, with his bare hands, snapped my walking stick in half as though it were no more than a twig.

"You _shall_do it, I say! Dear god, if I must turn this blasted city inside out..." He trailed off, tossing the broken halves aside and resuming his pacing. When finally I approached, he was running an unsteady hand through his hair, pulling it by the roots in the fashion of a man whose wits hang by a tenuous thread.

Perhaps it was not the wisest idea to approach him in so agitated a humour, especially when he was already disgusted with me and backed up against the proverbial dead end over his case. I knew not how he tracked Saunders here, though even I could deduce he must have realized another attempted murder had taken place here to-night. In the end, I could not stand idly by and allow his mind to tear itself to pieces, and if there was anything at all I could do to help, no matter how sourly my presence would be received, than something I _must_do.

"Holmes?"

The man went rigid as a pole. Heaven help me, had I truly made him so cross?

"Holmes," I went on, meekly. "You must believe how dreadfully sorry I am. But if there is anything at all I can do to help, just say the word."

_"Watson..."_

"Yes, my dear fellow?"

When he turned towards me, even in the gloom it was obvious how the color had drained from him, that his breathing was not so steady and for just a fleeting second it seemed as though there were an unnatural lustre to his eyes. Fearing he was on the verge of a nervous collapse, I strode over and grasped him firmly by the arms. That he all but crumpled into my hold was a testament to the extent of his overtaxed state.

Further compounding my diagnosis of overwrought nerves, I heard, I shall swear to this very day, an apology breathed into my ear before he pulled away.

Then, his usual regal bearing restored, he was adjusting his muffler, and, with a haughty sniff, ordered Inspector Hopkins to do something useful or remove his head from an orifice which propriety demands I not commit to paper.

Taking my arm, he stalked off, and I let him lead me to the kerb, whereupon he whistled for a cab. My confusion at his abnormally queer behaviour was so profound that there were several instances that I made to speak but was struck dumb by my own misgivings. But when a hansom finally pulled up, I found my words, inarticulate as they may have been.

"Holmes, what in all blazes is going on?"

"Ah," said he, as we stepped into the waiting cab. "I think, my dear fellow, that once we are back home you deserve a more comprehensive apology, but for now, Watson... for now it must be enough for your dimwitted friend to admit he nearly lost a thing of inestimable value."

"And have you got it back?" I queried, more bemused than ever.

"Yes, my dear fellow." I was startled when his long, delicate fingers curled round my wrist, yet even more so by the cracking of his voice. "Undeserving a wretch as I am, I do believe that I have."

The cab rattled off into the whirling blizzard, and I wondered if, on that night, we had both unearthed a great treasure.


End file.
